Tell 'em Who You Are

The following is a tribute to Edward Charles O'Connor, my dad. He died today.

(To listen to this story, click on the photo above.)

My dad would talk all day about football, stock cars or golf. But when it came to other things, especially “squishy” things like feelings, Ed O’Connor was a man of few words.

He wasn’t given to long speeches. He led and taught by example. Rather than ramble on, his thoughts were vocalized as staccato bursts. And the interpretation of those pearls of wisdom was up to you and you alone.

One of the few verbal pieces of advice my dad gave me was incredibly simple, straight-forward, and yet, profound.

It was just five words. “Tell ‘em who you are.”

All three of his kids learned it. It’d be the last thing we’d hear as we stepped out of the door. “Tell ‘em who you are.”

As a shy young kid, “Tell ‘em who you are,” was the armor that gave me the courage to run errands for Dad uptown and talk to adults. When I’d walk into a store or the bank I’d say, “Hi, I’m Jim O’Connor.” The response was invariably a blank stare until I followed with, “I’m Ed’s son.” Those three additional words always resulted in a smile and an open door.

Everybody knew my dad. To know him was to love him. He always went a hundred miles an hour, always had a smile on his face, and always had a kind word for whomever was standing before him.

When I got to junior high, I began to learn that while I’d always be Ed’s son, I needed to come out of Dad’s shadow and begin making my own way. “Tell ‘em who you are,” became short-hand for “stand up straight, look ‘em in the eye, give ‘em a firm handshake and speak up.” Ed had no time for petulant teenagers – especially petulant teenage boys.

When I joined the service, and later entered my career, “Tell ‘em who you are” evolved into the realization that we alone are responsible for who we are and what we stand for. And it’s up to us to tell our story. No one’s going to do it for us. We need to be proud, stand up and speak up. But yet, remain humble and remember from where we came. Ed didn’t hold with bragging.

That point was driven home to me a few years ago when I was the executive director for university relations at the University of Northern Iowa. At that time my dad was semi-retired and working as a part-time custodian at Lincoln Elementary School in Osage, and he told me all the third-graders were coming to UNI for a show at the performing arts center. Ed loved kids and kids loved Ed.

Despite my busy schedule, I met the kids and their teachers as they came into the center that day. I had UNI pencils for all the kids. I introduced myself to the head teacher, explaining who I was at UNI and that I was from Osage and that I, too, had been a student at Lincoln Elementary.

She smiled politely and thanked me for the pencils – giving me the classic blank look of a busy person who needed to move on. She wasn’t nearly as impressed as I’d hoped. With new-found humility, I realized I needed to tell her who I really was.

“I believe you know my dad,” I said. “I’m Ed’s son.” “Oh!” She exclaimed. “We love Ed! He’s wonderful with the students.”

Then she turned and said in her teacher voice to her fifty young charges, “These pencils are from Mr. O’Connor, he’s from Osage and went to Lincoln just like you.” Nothing. No reaction. Just blank stares. Then she said, “He’s Ed’s son!”

They went nuts. “Ed’s son!” they yelled back. My dad was a rock star.

No matter what I achieve in this world, I’ll always be “Ed’s son.” And I’m good with that. More importantly I’m very proud of it.

“Tell ‘em who you are.”

Dad, if you haven’t already, when you get to the check-in line at the pearly gates in Heaven, don’t forget to tell Saint Peter who you are. You’re Ed O’Connor -- son, brother, husband, father, grandfather, boss, co-worker and friend.

And please tell him you’re Jim’s dad. Because I know someday when Saint Peter gives me that blank stare, I’ll tell him, “I’m Ed’s son.”

Note: If you enjoyed this story, please like, follow or subscribe. Thanks!

Ed O'Connor